


Shot in the Dark

by RunningInRoses



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hanzo Shimada has Prosthetic Legs, Hanzo Shimada is Bad at Feelings, Hanzo Shimada is Bad at Making Friends, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Personal Canon, Post-Recall, Post-Zero Hour, Shimada Brothers being brothers again, Slow Burn, To An Extent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunningInRoses/pseuds/RunningInRoses
Summary: Genji is alive.Alive as a man can be, after what Hanzo did to him.And he'd found him, despite how careful Hanzo has been about going to Hanamura every year, sneaking past the lackluster guard detail and silently kneeling in front of his brother's resting place. Fought him, like he had any business to bring up the memory of the sword Hanzo held against him as he-And Genji wants him back. He wants Hanzo to join Overwatch with him.-A fic in which Hanzo is recruited for Overwatch post-Recall and has a time trying to figure out exactly how he feels about a certain cowboy. A self-indulgent personal canon after established canon events in lore.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 14
Kudos: 87





	1. Distant Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I frantically wrote this in the middle of the night in the span of 24 hours simply because I decided to watch the cinematics again and got way too excited.
> 
> First chapter is specifically an analysis of how Genji actually gets Hanzo to join him after the Dragons cinematic.
> 
> Fic is also labeled McHanzo to level everyone's expectations coming in, since this'll prob be a mega Hanzo simp hour for me lol.
> 
> Overwatch, in my AO3? More likely than you think! Want to talk more about it?:  
> Twitter: @RoseArting  
> Instagram: @rosearting  
> Tumblr: @riroses

A gentle breeze whips around Hanzo's cheeks, blowing his hair into his face as he hunches over his tablet, scanning news sources from around the country for a sign - any sign.

Nothing. Nothing pops up at all about the phantom cyborg that had accosted him at Shimada castle beside his own personal experience.

He frustrates a hand at the side of his scalp, trying to get the stray strands from his ponytail under control before he rips all of his hair out. It does nothing but split the locks and cover his vision to the point he has to turn his tablet off and rest his eyes, sinking into his circled arms and resting his weight on the low table.

Genji is alive.

Alive as a man can be, after what Hanzo did to him.

And he'd found him, despite how careful Hanzo has been about going to Hanamura every year, sneaking past the lackluster guard detail and silently kneeling in front of his brother's resting place.

Fought him, like he had any business to bring up the memory of the sword Hanzo held against him as he-

And Genji wants him back. He wants Hanzo to join Overwatch with him.

When he'd limped back to his hotel, feeling the sprain in his ankle from a bad land, he'd considered pinching himself as if this were a dream, trying to go back to the somber but sane existence he'd been living after his departure from the Shimada clan. Hoped he could wake himself from whatever lucid nightmare he'd gotten stuck in.

The prickling feeling radiating from his ankle after had been answer enough.

So he's submitted himself to scouring the internet for so much as a glimpse of a chrome samurai, one that could kill a man in a matter of seconds armed with an ethereal dragon.

Either Overwatch had held a tight grip on news outlets across the globe, or Genji operated so covertly that he had not been detected in 10 years.

_10 years._

Gripping tightly at his _hakama_ bunched around his knees, he lifts his head with his eyes closed. Almost like a prayer, he turns to the empty ceiling for answers.

As it usually does, nothing results from the silence.

In his first resolute move of the night, he closes the window and decides to try for sleep, no matter how elusive it is sure to be.

* * *

The next morning he is surprised to wake up to, rather than a nightmare, the shuttering of the window. Training all his life has made him a light sleeper, so he picks up on the sound and bolts up, hand reaching over the side of the bed for his bow.

His slowly adjusting eyes say that no one is in the room, clear in the morning sun. However, the window is open, and a sparrow's feather is trapped under the weight of a strip of paper no bigger than the size of Hanzo's pinky.

Waiting a few moments garners no further movement, so he stands on shaky legs that haven't calibrated yet to grab at the feather before the wind decides to take it away.

Untying the paper and unfolding it yields some scratchy kanji flowing downward, visibly more rushed as it goes. ' _Choose. Meet at Rikimaru, 4th district. 21:00.'_

Hanzo fears crumpling the paper, so he sets it down before he clenches his hands into fists, covering his eyes. It had been one of their favorite spots to go and eat as children, specifically because the owner of the 4th district restaurant was much kinder to two rich, spoiled brats than most.

No one else could've written it. Which makes it that much harder to comprehend.

* * *

Every second Hanzo stands outside Rikimaru, giving it a wide berth to not expose his intent, he wants to turn tail and run.

He has grappled with his mistake every waking moment for the past 10 years, feeling it in the way he moves, talks, breathes.

He has no idea what kind of game Genji is playing, but it's not one he enjoys in the slightest.

So why is he standing here and giving reason to yesterday’s encounter? Little clue, beyond this clawing, aching feeling in his chest.

It's been easy, going from odd job to assassination attempt week by week, earning his keep as he stays low and keeps to himself. He's been from the center city of Numbani (a lackluster experience to what he’d been anticipating) to the most irradiated coast of Australia, steering clear of the looming Junkertown to find his target huddled like some rat in the corner of a dilapidated shack.

He's traveled the world, assumed new identities like it was nothing, killed for the necessity of a bed to sleep in and food in his stomach because it was all he was good for.

It was all he was good for after what he did to Genji.

So now, being told to make a choice and recognize that there are bigger issues outside his scope of scraping by day to day- well God, he doesn't even know what to think.

Surely instead of joining such a confidential yet still prominent organization like Overwatch, Genji would much rather give him his due retribution.

They'd fought, and Genji had had the blade to his neck, and yet he backed away.

It was impossible to understand.

A distant chime of a bell goes off 9 times, signaling the time for anyone that may not be carrying a clock; doubtful in this day and age.

So Hanzo sucks up his pride and practically marches into the Rikimaru, sitting at the ramen bar more mechanically than of his own volition. It's nearly 30 minutes before closing, if he remembers correctly, so nobody is inside besides an older man who has his back turned to the door, working on the small burner he has behind the counter.

The owner, clearly, but definitely not the same one of his youth. He'd been much older than this man, with gray hair fraying around his chin and ears.

He turns and asks Hanzo for his order, where he just asks for a simple bowl with no protein in case the heaviness of it gets to him later and has him regretting the meal.

Hesitantly, he also adds a pork bowl. In some sentimental part of his heart, he hopes that Genji can still enjoy the food they used to divulge in.

The owner works, brisk as he walks between the work floor and the kitchen. It gives Hanzo time to think to himself, to debate internally if he's gone crazy after all, listening to a note on a feather.

" _Anija_."

It's robotic, but surprise still shines through, constricting painfully around Hanzo's lungs.

He turns his head slightly, fearful of what he'll find.

But it is the same cyborg as before, with the same silver body that's now dressed down in sweatpants and a hoodie that seems too large, even for his significantly broad build.

Hanzo stares mostly at the visor, a green v-shape imprinted under his eyelids when he blinks.

In a very calculated, delicate manner, Genji comes around his back to sit to his left, as he always had, and audibly sighs in what must be relief.

"I'm glad I didn't make this trip for nothing." Is what he decides to say first, pulling down the hood so he can get access to the release clamps on his helmet.

Hanzo wants to look away, but simply can't. He listens to the slight whir as locks disengage and Genji tugs the armor from his head, looking just as he had the night before.

Scarred, mangled. Rosy lines crossing his face haphazardly, some raised in a way that's never let them heal fully. Black hair growing in small patches from his skull, mostly uneven around particular gashes that Hanzo can see through the thin strands.

Piercing gray eyes, as they'd always been. Mirthy, to say the least, though age has taken the edge off.

He squares his shoulders and resolutely gives Genji a moment as he shakes a hand in his hair to get it out of its matted state, probably harbored in that helmet since he's slept. Maybe even longer.

A long pass of silence overtakes them, examining each other from the corner of their eyes because they cannot form words, yet want to do something rather than just act brainless.

Genji probably sees Hanzo's age wearing into his hair and skin, not the same as he'd once been as _kumicho_ , no matter how short the period was. It had been his prime. He, now, was well past it.

There's a slight buzz in the air before Genji decides to speak, " _Anija._ Hanzo." It's in a tone of disbelief, unseeing as his long-lost brother sits right next to him and says nothing. Hanzo has always been of chosen words, but this-

Sensing the obligation, he opens his mouth to speak, but gets interrupted as the owner emerges from the kitchen to set their bowls in front of them with a nod before leaving them altogether.

It feels awkward now, the need to talk but also the need to eat when Hanzo hadn't even thought if Genji still _needed_ to eat.

The unintentional prompt seems to take Genji for a loop, looking down at his most-likely wasted meal in passing seconds of a gaped mouth, even if small.

Hanzo recognizes the unguarded reminiscing, thinking back to when their feet couldn't even touch the floor as they climbed into booth seats to eat their fill of whatever they desired.

"You-" He stutters over his words, less mechanical without the helmet on to modulate his voice or expression, "You didn't have to order for me."

Quiet. Quieter than Hanzo remembers him being.

"I assumed you would still need to eat. I am sorry I was incorrect." Grimace as he may, he bears his teeth and hangs his head to show his regret.

So it truly perplexes him when Genji picks up the chopsticks laid in the dip of the bowl and starts eating as if he's been starved for weeks.

He doesn't take a second to speak, or even breathe, until he's halfway through his second mouthful.

"Like hell I'd give up eating." It comes out muffled and barely Japanese, but enough that Hanzo understands.

He may have taken a lot from his brother; his legs, his arms, his face. But he had not taken away his personality. It seems it's just been worn down by the sands of time, smoothing over his rough dispositions and made him a man who still indulged himself in finer things like good food.

Hanzo's chest settles for just a moment, watching as his brother eats.

When Genji takes a chance glance at him, he's already taken to eating his own food.

They sit in almost silence as they eat, a product of their strict upbringing. It's interspersed with small comments from Genji, as he'd always done, barely able to contain himself in the midst of another person he could talk to.

Hanzo just nods, as he'd always done.

* * *

He's thoroughly astonished when, after paying for their meal and stepping outside, that this is when Genji decides to bring it up again.

They'd left before they'd gotten a chance to discuss anything in particular past pleasantries due to the closing time, but as the lights flicker off from inside, the streetlamp above them sharply outlines Genji's face as he asks, "So, are you going to come with me?"

With his helmet back on, it's impossible to tell how much Hanzo's following silence affects him.

He'd come with a question, to solidify his decision, but it was difficult letting the words flow past his lips. Even so, he composes himself.

"You don't want to get revenge?"

Visibly, Genji's shoulders lock up, tensing at the mention of either his demise or the consequences of such.

"If I wanted to, I would've already." He spits it like the mere thought disgusts him, like killing Hanzo is worse than any sin he could ever commit.

It is.

It's such a hellish sin that Hanzo has been trying to escape all these years, finding his solace in nights blacked out and dead to the world after bottles of alcohol that never satisfy.

"So what should I do then?" Hanzo breathes, barely above the gale that surrounds them before dying down again.

He has been doing the same thing for years. Running. Hiding. Pretending.

What point is there to it all anymore? Keeping himself alive for one more day, one more to think about what he's done and still live on.

And with Genji standing here now, right in front of him, in arm's reach, all his suffering was for naught.

So what can he do, now that everything leading up to this point was just selfish instincts guiding him to stay alive?

Genji holds out his hand.

"Join Overwatch. Come make the world better for us both."

"What use is an assassin to such an organization?" Doubt seeps from him, coating his demeanor and pulling him down into this deepness that swallows whole.

"Plenty, if they took me in." A small laugh, so familiar yet so odd with the distortion on it.

"And you're okay with that? Having your bastard of a brother, the one who _murdered_ you, in the same building as you for the rest of the foreseeable future?"

The hand does not waver, even if the harsh past makes Genji flinch.

"That's not who you are anymore. We both know that. So forget whatever you've done and had to do to be here." An earnest step forward, closing the mile-long distance. "Come be someone better now. Come be my brother again."

_Brother_.

Having a brother again. One who will relentlessly tease you and pull at your weakest strings until you want to tear his throat out. One who will find the easiest and quickest ways to irk you, passing the information as if it's knowledge that anyone could know.

One who will comfort you in the darkest moments, even with a sword in your hand and poison filling your brain, leaking over and covering you in slick that you'll never be able to wash away.

A memory of a long-gone, sleepless night, much like many, still haunts Hanzo. Years before his brother's death and the fall of the clan.

One that had reeked of metallic blood that he tried to wash off of his hands, crying with the harshness of the world, his father, and the nails that scratched his skin with each pass.

Genji, still green-haired and disobedient, sat next to him. Had put a hand on his shoulder and sat in this uncharacteristic silence for however long it took Hanzo to regain control, even if his fingers were still stained.

A brother again.

That missing void inside Hanzo, that piece of his identity that he had taken from himself.

He can barely contain the shaking of his arm as he reaches out.

But Genji takes another step forward, clasps hands with him, pulls him even closer into a hug.

So long.

10 years.

For the first time in those years, Hanzo can take in a lungful of air and breathe it out without anguish.


	2. Long Lost But Reunited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I like messy character motivations and repressed feelings. I had to look at the wiki, like, 20 times just for this chapter alone.
> 
> My socials, in case I missed something:  
> Twitter: @RoseArting  
> Instagram: @rosearting  
> Tumblr: @riroses

Before leaving Japan for Watchpoint: Gibraltar, Hanzo left his hotel room and traveled light-footed to the Shimada castle, taking a winding path that was unlikely to be followed.

The gate was closed, as it always was, carved with the mark of a long-dead clan that had no one to its name anymore besides lingering elders who’d escaped Hanzo’s grasp. He’d have hunted them all if his purpose hadn’t changed. Now, he could care less about the people who still lived in his home, even if it made him uncomfortable.

Redemption is what he’d been seeking with all those elders dead. Killing the ones who had made him do what he did. He felt it was some type of reparation.

Not as good as the chance he had now, a possibility he never even dared to entertain.

One more glance. Just one more moment to take it in before the future decides to change.

* * *

Even if Hanzo had expected some type of personal transport to the Watchpoint, he hadn’t figured it would be a house-sized Orca aircraft waiting in the middle of a clearing in a forest that up until that point had been densely packed.

Less so did he expect the lithe woman that was waving from the port door, dressed in an orange skin-tight jumper and goggles.

“Genji! How are you, love?” Her accent comes off strongly British, but not as overpowering as the sheer amount of energy that dissipates from her form. Genji takes her outstretched hand, probably in a handshake, but she pulls him in with a surprising amount of strength to get in a hug. “Been so long, being across the continent from each other. We’re lucky you even came back at all!”

"Please, Lena. You're lucky you got a break. Angela will surely agree." Hanzo's brother chuckles, tilting his head in that way he used to do when he was giving a cheeky grin. 'Lena' probably sensed it through the mask and gives him a small punch to the shoulder.

And then she turns her attention to Hanzo. He stiffens under her gaze, which feels like she’s sizing him up even with that wide grin on her face.

A real handshake this time, "Agent Tracer, Lena Oxton, at your service!"

Hanzo takes it lightly, nods, "Hanzo Shimada."

"Finally get to meet the brother, eh? You're much- more than I was expecting." A little laugh that comes out a smidge nervous leaves her as she scratches her cheek, giving him another once over as she steps back from his space.

She's most likely referencing his sheer muscle mass since he can tell now that he's only a slight bit taller. Compared to her stick-thin legs and arms, he'd probably be able to wrestle her to the ground and keep her down with just his weight. Her combat style must revolve around her spry nature. Plus the device harnessed around her chest, glowing blue with energy.

A familiar look of knowing crosses her face as a smirk, "Wondering what it does, right? Well-" And then she's gone, blipped out of existence in a flash of blue. "Impressive, huh?" She yells from 30 meters away, waving with a hand on her hip. "Perks of getting jettisoned from this plane of existence."

And, as if she'd never left, she's back in front of Hanzo, the hazy afterglow of her power dissipating in seconds.

"Quite." He gives a terse reply. He would ask for more detailed information, but he's sure that, if he didn't find out what he wanted in personnel reports, she'd give it due to her openness for discussion.

They quickly make their way into the Orca since lingering would surely draw attention from Japanese airways and prepare for liftoff. Once in the air, they'll be able to move freely, making use of the holotable situated to the side of the cabin floor and a coffee machine that will surely be needed after the 30-hour trip. While some modern-day ships would probably be able to cut that time in half, the Orcas were specifically manufactured as transport carriers, for both personnel and cargo. Hence the bulkier size and regrettably long travel time.

So Hanzo stows his duffel bag in the storage hold and settles into one of the seats built into the wall, lowering the harness securely, and waits.

He waits as Agent Tracer gets the ship up and running, zipping from each side of the craft to check pressures and fuel and calibrations with Genji patiently asking her questions when she comes back to the cockpit, quiet even in the large, rotund space.

Minutes pass before, finally, Genji climbs down the stairs and takes the seat next to Hanzo, holding out a comm that he takes before being secured.

"Mandated Overwatch equipment. All the information you could ever want of its past, present, and future… within limits. Figured you'd enjoy the reading." Genji answers the skepticism that must be clear on Hanzo's face. As he powers on the device, Genji sinks into his seat, metallic heels scraping the floor, "Gonna take a nap myself. Long trip ahead of us, _Anija_."

The engines start with a low rumble, situated beyond layers of bulletproof and soundproofing walls. The comm's screen lights with a logo simply composed of an A and a voice, pitched feminine, reaches Hanzo.

"Greetings, Agent Shimada. My name is Athena, Overwatch's personal artificial intelligence system. I will be found on any Overwatch-sanctioned device and inside official bases and vehicles. Though this is limited to Watchpoint Gibraltar currently, we hope to continue our expansion. If you need any assistance, please do not hesitate to ask."

An AI. Hanzo should’ve guessed, really. What company, no matter how newly-founded again, wouldn’t have one?

“Thank you, Athena. I can entertain myself for now.” He swipes the comm open and goes to the settings, perusing to familiarize himself with the device. The last time he’d had something remotely similar to a comm was in his days as _kumicho_ , a tablet that acted as his information hub and communication to other unsavory businesses.

He closes his eyes before he can look to his right and show that regret.

When he gets his breathing back in control, Hanzo opens the file directory on the comm and chooses that, if anything, it would be best to learn as much as he can about the Watchpoint before they get there.

* * *

Hanzo only recognizes he dozed off after page 108 of 230 when his eyes open wearily to dimmed yellow light coming from the cockpit.

The ship is silent save for the low rumble of the engines and barely audible pop-ups from the navigation screen above his head.

Genji is nowhere to be seen.

For a slight, unexpected moment, Hanzo panics.

His mind wanders, trying to find reason in Genji leaving, walking out of his life again, taking all the hope Hanzo's ever had and letting it rot.

Hanzo rubs his eyes, removing the tackiness from the beginnings of sand.

Genji is sitting in a chair in the cockpit, barely visible from Hanzo's seat. His green lights embedded in his suit are dimmer, as if a conservation of energy. His form clearly conveys his slumber.

Hanzo just wishes he'd taken his helmet off. It must be unbearably uncomfortable to wake up in.

Turning off the comm, Hanzo stands and stretches, letting his legs come back to him in short mechanical bursts. He walks up the stairs to the dome of the control panel, Tracer standing over it as she hums to herself. The sky is dark and a few clouds pass by in their wake. It's an endless sea of black, if not for the waxing moon hanging above.

Hanzo is careful to step louder than he usually does before speaking, "Agent Tracer."

She doesn't flinch, to his relief, turning her head to meet his gaze for a moment.

"Ay, Hanzo. I'd figured you'd be up the entire time, staring at your comm like you were." A lilt of laughter, seeped in a tired coat, reaches Hanzo. She seems to remember herself, coughing into her fist. "Pardon, Agent Shimada. Not good with all the pleasantries, y'know?"

For a moment, Hanzo considers the choice. Formality is his strongest suit, his perfect weapon. It was clearly not the same for Tracer.

"Hanzo is fine." He decides, trying to forget the influence of Genji's slumbering body nearby.

"Lena for me, then." And he's surprised Tracer lets that silence hang, basking in the slowly building bridge under the moonlight.

This will not be the first time connection will be easy, but it certainly will not be the status quo.

A small celebration, Hanzo sits in the co-pilot chair next to Tracer, watching the countdown and live tracker of the flight path.

* * *

7 and a half hours later, which remained sleepless, Watchpoint Gibraltar is beyond the ship's doors. The landing pad is a tight fit for the Orca, but Tracer does a fine job of navigating the rocky outcrop overhead to situate them. All fortified aluminum and steel, the base is a bleak color palette contrasted with the outfits those outside wear.

Hanzo simply watches a few paces back as Genji is greeted by those who have gathered. Among them is a young woman with streaks of pink across her cheeks, an abnormally tall man who's triceps are probably larger than Hanzo's own head, a man with dreadlocks dressed in green, and an omnic, floating above the ground.

The lineup is surprising and, somehow, not.

"Finally! I've been waiting forever for you to get back!" The younger woman shouts, punching Genji before pulling him into a quick hug. The same goes for the large man, but his is with more gusto and strength.

"Aha, my friend! We welcome you back!" His voice bellows and bounces off the walls, unstoppable in their journey through the open space.

The green-clad man just chuckles and gives Genji a fist bump.

The following interaction with the omnic is what has Hanzo confused.

Genji bows at the waist, not low enough like he's begging for forgiveness, but rather the level that he might have done to their father or elders if he'd ever been one for rules.

A master, if anything. Someone who's probably done more for Genji in these 10 years than Hanzo has done for him in his entire lifetime.

He sucks in a quick breath and neutralizes his expression before the feeling can get to him.

Genji comes back up to him before he can step down from the mouth of the Orca, feeling too out of place standing above these people.

"Hanzo, meet Overwatch. Well, part of Overwatch."

"Agent D.Va, here to kick some Null Sector ass!" The woman gives a salute that implies military service, but her demeanor wouldn't hold up against the formal scrutiny that would accompany such a position.

"And Reinhardt! Always a delight to see them fall!" Equally reverberant as before, the tall man places his gigantic hands on his hips.

The younger man scoffs, but not out of disgust. Just a recognition of unchangeable characteristics. And then he smiles at Hanzo with all of his teeth, "Agent Lucio. Don't forget it."

The omnic doesn't move to speak and there's no indication from his faceplate that he's inclined to do so.

Hanzo forces himself into a short bow, "Agent Shimada."

"Long lost brothers, finally reunited. Almost like a tale from a storybook!" Reinhardt laughs, crossing his eyes from the two as if he'll find resemblance past the names. "Surely it will be an honor to see you both work side by side again. Genji was quite excited about it!"

When Reinhardt's attention deviates to D.Va to listen to her comment, Hanzo can't help the glance and cock of his head in Genji's direction.

'Excited.' Excited to see him, be with him.

If Genji had felt inclined to admonish such a personal admission, he would not do so now. He was still trained on the other agents, vigilant behind his visor.

Within the midst of a rather overwhelming conversation between the three human agents, the omnic finds it the perfect time to make his way over, unbothered as he moves ethereally with a grace that Hanzo can't help but be jealous of.

With a bow, deep even in his seated 'standing' position, the omnic speaks, "It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Agent Shimada. My name is Zenyatta." His voice comes from an embedded voice box just below his faceplate, almost tinny if not for a small slit in the metal like a mock mouth. The demure expression that will forever stare back unsettled Hanzo more than it puts him at ease.

"My master of many years. Not this whole time, but since Overwatch fell." Genji wrings his hands together then, looking off to the side as if Hanzo can see the embarrassment that must be on his face. "My temper was probably worse than yours when I was in Blackwatch. After-... everything, I needed to find a better purpose."

“And purpose you have found, my pupil. This is no small accomplishment.” Zenyatta doesn’t gesture, but it’s clear he means Hanzo.

Even if he wants to feel pleased with the development, something stops Hanzo. It all feels too orchestrated, the way the omnic talks about it. He might consider this just one of those Shambali things, where it’s hard for humans to comprehend the way their minds convey their words. But Hanzo’s been to Nepal before. Zenyatta doesn’t wear their insignia or quote their scripture endlessly. He just floats with that tell of spiritual ascendance.

An omnic thing, then. Natural enigmas to him.

Genji’s hand on his shoulder is enough for him to tense, “It wasn’t all my work. Hanzo came, after all.”

Don’t do that to him. Don’t say such sincere things when he can’t even see the face that says them.

Hanzo crushes down whatever reaction he had with the heel of his foot, “I had nothing left for me in Hanamura.”

“You still could’ve said no.” An oddly-placed lilt on that last word, like Genji is still offering.

“I’ve already made my choice.” Or, rather, the choice was already made for him. What else is he supposed to do in a world where his brother is still alive, searching for him, looking for peace after all these years of festering silence that tinges even this mild conversation with a gagging undertone.

Zenyatta nods, the first thing he’s done besides that bow that’s conveyed any emotion at all, “We are all glad you have chosen a side now, with how dangerously the world is hanging in the balance. Someone as strong-willed as you are will be a commendable ally.”

Because Hanzo can read him better, he feels Genji’s fingers lock up on his shoulder, feels this profound wave of sadness take whatever he might have been thinking of saying and twist it.

“We are working for good. He would be a fool to think of any other side.”

Just what has happened in these past years to his brother, who never gave a damn about anything that wasn’t related to him? What happened to him that’s made him such a devoted vigilante for justice?

Where, Hanzo wonders, did the fire in his heart go, now so mollified and ashen that he’s like a century-old monk who’s taken every fault of the past and turned it into a tale to never follow?

And why is he here, such a stark reminder of it?


	3. At Your Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling like a mastermind, weaving all these people together and making an intricate web of relationships. Big casts have never been my strongest suit but I hope I can hone my prowess here.
> 
> Also, the next chapter (hopefully) is where I put that McHanzo tag to good use.
> 
> Want to theory-craft with me? Hit me up:  
> Twitter: @RoseArting  
> Instagram: @rosearting  
> Tumblr: @riroses

When the conversation had finally shifted with help from the other group on the launchpad, Hanzo was led inside as they headed for the commons, a hollowed space in the rock the size of a concert hall minus the stage. Instead, it housed seating that could probably fit hundreds if not for the utter disrepair most of it was in. In total, there were four long tables set up with a peppering of chairs that had not come from the same set, taking up a small portion of the room compared to the pile of rusted and broken furniture pushed to the far side from the door.

Somewhat partitioned off from the dining space was what might be considered a kitchenette in such a large area. Hanzo suspected some sort of galley kitchen had to be somewhere on base but was probably as unusable as the majority of this room due to disuse and the lack of sheer numbers that would justify its repair.

Still, a long island with tall stools marked off the area, behind which was a strip of counter space interspersed with an industrial refrigerator and two separate ovens, among other appliances. Working at one of those ovens was a short woman with her brown hair gathered in a bun at the back of her head. A blue droid hovered next to her, giving off trills of electronic replies that meant little to nothing besides working up the uncanny valley.

“Ah, Mei, guess who’s back!” D.Va almost launches across the island to get the woman’s attention, who startles so badly that the robot has to save her breakfast before it hits the ground.

Clutching at her chest, a laugh bubbles out, “Oh, please Hana, don’t scare me like that.” She sighs after, carefully peeling her halfway cooked pancake from her companion before turning to the crowd. It seems she can spot the oddity from a mile away, eyes widening as they cross between him and Genji. Hanzo assumes it really must have been a long while like Tracer had said since she cries out in joy and forgets about her food to greet him.

“I’m glad you’re happy instead of angry.” His brother chuckles, taking the hug she offers him.

“It’s better to see you come back than not at all.” Her voice has that telltale tremble of the beginnings of tears, but she seems to suppress it before it can start.

“I promised I would. I don’t break promises.”

“You can’t blame me for being worried. Leaving without a word, just sending that comm message-” And she consciously stops herself, pinched eyebrows fading in her moment of silence. And then she turns to Hanzo, sticks out the ubiquitous hand. “My name is Mei-Ling Zhou, but I go by Mei. Please, Hanzo, let me make you something to eat. I know how long the flight is from the East to here myself.”

He doesn’t have a chance to stop her after he shakes her hand, Genji lightly pushing him into one of the bar stools before taking a seat next to him.

“Mei’s pancakes are the best on base. She uses a secret recipe that she’s never told a soul.” A palm cups around where his mouth would be, like it obscures his lips better than his mask does.

Theatrics haven’t left him. A small relief.

The rest of the group disperses, seemingly already having eaten or just had their share of basking in Genji’s return. They leave as a unit, but not without goodbyes that echo off the high ceiling.

There’s a stark difference to the chatter Genji and Mei give into, calmly talking about the trip and the changes to the castle and Hanamura. Mei doesn’t try to engage Hanzo in the conversation, which he is grateful for, besides an unrelated question.

“Any preference, Hanzo?” Mei turns just as Hanzo is about to choke on air. The casual use of his name, the unknowing in her tone, the wording. How damning that he even reacted at all.

“No, anything is fine.” He decides to answer evenly, feigning rubbing his eyes as he tries to stop himself from thinking too deeply.

Genji, knowingly, pointedly, smirks, “You’ve always been a fan of chocolate though. We have plenty on base if you want to indulge.” He relaxes his head in his hands as Hanzo stares at him, abashed, shoulders practically reaching his ears.

“ _Genji_ -” He hisses it out in a warning, but his brother is nothing if not devious.

“You haven’t changed that much, right, Hanzo?” And then, in quieter Japanese, “ _I’d hope I still know my brother._ ”

“ _You say that like it’s ever been important._ ” He’s less anxious with the language barrier but still perturbed by the sudden shift in topic. What he’d give to be anywhere else, talking about anything less personal.

Genji shifts in his chair, looking down at the counter as he reminds, “ _Important to Father. Not to me._ ” That night, again, stings in its familiarity.

Hanzo wants to crawl out of his own skin and save himself from whatever stupid thing he’s about to say when Mei settles a plate of pancakes in between them sheepishly.

“You can take these for now, but I can make more. Please, go ahead.” The droid chirps after she finishes, its display showing upward arrows like an imitation of eyes.

He decides that nodding is better than talking and picks up a fork and knife to try these supposedly renowned pancakes.

If he really thought about it, he wasn’t surprised that Genji wasn’t lying.

* * *

After the relative silence of their meal (and the passing of Genji’s ribbing), Mei leaves with Snowball, the name of the droid that follows her, in a hurry. She apologizes so sincerely, bowing in short bursts between her ‘sorry’s, explaining that a certain block of the Watchpoint desperately needs her input as the resident specialist in wind energy.

Hanzo cannot help the breath he releases when the door slides closed behind her. He doesn’t think he’s met so many new people in one day since his youth.

Wearily, on such a train of thought, he glances to his left.

Genji’s visor is directed at him, and yet he doesn’t speak. Something tells Hanzo he’s lingering, trying to decipher exactly what’s going on in Hanzo’s head, just like he is doing to Genji.

In the privacy of an empty room, Genji removes his helmet. He’s no different from the last time Hanzo saw him. Same lined face and mottled hair. Same eyes, deeply silver, cutting into him. It’s hard for Genji to hide his feelings with his face so open. The pull of his lips and rise of his nose convey his deep thought, laced in with concern so obvious Hanzo nearly winces.

“I know what you want to say.”

No, Hanzo has no idea what to say. No idea what to even think.

“I don’t-”

“You don’t need to put up with it if you don’t want to. I just thought that it might be, you know, better than acting like two stone fishes, floundering inside our skin.” Genji smiles downward, tight at the corners.

“What do you mean?” Truly, Hanzo is lost.

“I always, well… I tease everyone, really. But if you’re uncomfortable with that then-”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Genji, please. When have I ever been bothered by your antics?” He rolls his eyes, thinking back. It’s hard to not reminisce so vividly, the same face from their youth right there to project onto. It was always twisted so cunningly, jabbing at Hanzo’s formality and austere nature. He was the Sparrow, taking flight to whatever delight he wanted to consume him, and mocked Hanzo for not participating. They had been completely different. They are still completely different.

But Hanzo had not hated that. It wasn’t their difference. It was the cause of their differences. As much as Hanzo doesn’t want to speak ill of the dead, his father was the most traditional man he knew. He knew, as the eldest, he would be raised to live a certain life. It was all he could do to get archery added to his regime of sword fighting and hand-to-hand.

He also knew, as the younger brother, Genji would have more freedom. Too much freedom, maybe, considering he was still a core member of the Shimada- _gumi_.

Perhaps the extent of tradition hadn’t occurred to Hanzo until he’d gotten a taste of what freedom was, on a frigid night in the underbelly of Hanamura.

Maybe he hadn’t realized what it was like to have freedom until he had to rip it from his own hands later that night.

A hand comes over one of his own on the island, jointed, metallic fingers cold to the touch. It grounds him more than he cares to admit, brings him back to Genji’s face that sees and his heart that feels.

He must look skittish because Genji whispers, “When have I ever not bothered you?” 

So far from just straight words. He’s encompassing everything, compartmentalizing, trying to quantify all the nights Hanzo had to drag him, willing or not, out of whatever club he’d found himself in. Trying to squeeze together all his instances of negligence and recklessness and _pain_ and ask Hanzo.

“We’re older, Genji. What does all that matter anymore?” Barely can he hide behind his flat tone.

Those fingers squeeze a little more around his hand.

“Everything. It’s why we’re here now.”

“No, you are not here because of _me_.” Hanzo rises with his anger, his redemption, “You are here because someone saved you from me. They had to piece you back together to be here. They had to salvage what little of you was left and make you whole again. I-” He can’t.

Please, don’t look at him like that.

He slowly sits again, hands covering his face so he doesn’t have to see, “I killed you. I have no idea how you could even trust me.”

After a single moment of silence, Genji pulls his hands away.

“I do. Even if it took me a long while, I trust you. I want you to trust yourself, too.”

How unbecoming of him, seeing Hanzo in such a state. All these years of careful coping, reduced to this ragged form.

“You have no idea how hard it is when you’re the one who killed your own brother.”

“I’m not dead, Hanzo.” Genji lets out a small puff of air from his nose, eyebrows knitted and this tiny grin crossing his face. “We can fix this. That’s all I’ve wanted. After 10 years of pain, of working for forgiveness, I want to have what we used to. Before Father died. Before everything he made you do.”

A suppressed hitch in his voice, “I still did it all. How can you forgive that?”

Genji is the same as he’s always been. But underneath it, he’s grown wise.

“With your help.”

* * *

The room is covered in a generous layer of dust when the door slides open to display it. On every surface, from the bed alcove in the wall to the metal desk that is devoid of any objects, is dust.

Hanzo sneezes and covers his nose as he backs up. Damn him and his allergies.

“Oh, sorry Agent Shimada. We cleared out these rooms for use back when the recall was first sent out. It has been a while since we’ve even been in them.” Winston awkwardly smiles, flustered.

It was clear that the rooms down this wing of the Watchpoint were used often, judging from the odd one or two decorations on the doors and the soft murmur of noise that came from them. They must only address the housing when they actually have someone come on for duty. It’s not like they have the extra hands to keep the place tidy like a hotel.

“Do not worry about it, Commander. I will have to clean it anyway.” Hanzo acquiesces, grimacing at the open door and visible particles he can see in the rays coming from the singular recess light in the middle of the room.

“I can have Athena send a cleaning bot to fix it up if that would be better. You won’t have too much time today with the tour Baptiste and Echo are giving you.” The Strike-Commander looks down the hallway then, probably to the space they house said cleaning bots, “I’m sure it’ll be done long before you get back.”

Again, really, all Hanzo can do is accept.

“Thank you, Commander.” Hanzo bows to the proper degree of respect before punching in his own code for the door, a carefully chosen set of numbers he’s never used. Against better judgment, he steps inside the room, holding a sleeve to his nose. Upon closer inspection, there’s a set of sliding doors opposite the bed that open to reveal a closet, cobwebs hanging in the corners. It would be far more space than needed with the number of personal belongings Hanzo has.

To its right is another door, this time a full bathroom with an abnormally tall shower. Perhaps they had to accommodate people like Reinhardt and standardized the height of most rooms to assure they were comfortable. It’s how most of the Watchpoint feels so far. Larger, usually taller than wider, and much too grand for Hanzo. Open spaces that had an easy line of sight, nowhere to hide besides turning a corner from an attack. Long, spacious hallways that carried noise better with metal floors and ceilings. A fortress and livable home, but liable for ambush. Surely it would feel like less of a problem if the Watchpoint housed more than its current minuscule population.

Hanzo sinks onto the mattress in the bedroom, feels it give to his weight, and sighs.

A home. For however long it must be.

* * *

Baptiste points upward, drawing Hanzo’s attention to the high windows inside Winston’s workspace.

“Usually we take meetings in there since it’s the biggest space for us all, but we just need to make sure we don’t touch anything. Lots of fun science stuff that might blow up in our face.” The man chuckles, casting eyes over to their other companion. “Remember when Lucio grabbed the one thing-”

“Yes, he thought it looked like his sonar gun. Little did he know it was a prototype.” Echo, who’s had her hands clasped gently in front of her for the duration of the tour, brings one to her mouth like it would stifle a non-existent laugh. Her mannerisms are still human, Hanzo’s come to expect, but it seems her speech has become more direct as a result of her computer-based brain.

“Torbjorn really ripped into him for that one. It was supposed to be done just that afternoon too, but he could barely even piece the thing back together after.” Baptiste sucks on his teeth, eyes squinted at the memory.

In the past hour and a half, going around a good majority of the base, Hanzo’s heard stories like this one, mostly of the people he’s met so far, who’ve been here since the recall. Others, he has yet to encounter. D.Va, Tracer, and Lucio seem to be the center of most stories, by virtue of their extroverted nature, but there’s always a colorful cast of characters there that witness. Reinhardt, Genji, Baptiste, but others unknown like ‘Soldier’, ‘Ana’, ‘McCree.’

Popping into the various blocks of the Watchpoint has expanded Hanzo’s connections, however. He has learned that Torbjorn, the resident mechanic, and his daughter Brigitte spend most of their time in their workshop down in block 2 when they’re not on missions, occupied with the consistencies that need to be maintained to keep the Watchpoint running. Mercy he had seen in the medical wing, inside a room that had rows of cabinetry, picking through vials. Bastion (an oddity. Such an oddity,) had been stationed on one of the high walkways that ran from blocks 3 to 4, the only indication that it had been sentient was the small wave it did with its mechanical arm.

The group kept growing, and Hanzo’s memory capacity kept shrinking.

Colorful cast for sure, but so many to remember.

He turns to observe Baptiste as he launches into another tale, a mission gone awry and a particular burn someone sported that made everyone cackle for weeks on end. His teeth give a great smile, brown eyes light. 

Now, more than ever, Hanzo hates how right Genji had been.

Before Echo can add in her own commentary, three people step out of the doors that lead to Winston’s lab. The first is the simian scientist himself, careful to moderate his pace as he walks alongside two women. One, pink-haired and nearly the height of Winston’s shoulders, an impressive feat. The other, a woman with a bob of black hair and a tattoo under her eye. They stop when they see Hanzo’s group, considering each other.

Winston is the first to speak, “Baptiste, Echo, Agent Shimada. Let me introduce you to Agent Zarya and Agent Pharah, newly leased to Overwatch from the Russian Defense Forces and Helix respectively-”

“Fareeha, is that you?” Echo’s interruption wavers between leveled and completely distorted, as if her speech system is malfunctioning. It sounds almost like a sob, but beyond the sound a human could make.

To her credit, Pharah is able to reel in her reaction, though it is still painted with wide eyes and an unbelieving expression.

“Echo? _Mina_?” A tentative step closer, she holds out her hand as if unable to stop herself. Earnestly, Echo takes it, her facial projection giving way to a smile.

“Echo. I’m still Echo. McCree got me from the United States government and brought me back and- how are you? Are you okay? Do you know- have you-”

“Echo, please, Pharah just got here.” Winston places a large hand softly on Echo’s back, “You don’t need to overwhelm her so soon after coming back.” There’s a look in his eyes that Hanzo recognizes. A secret. Something that Pharah doesn’t know, that she shouldn’t know yet, if the way Echo nods minutely is any indication.

“Please excuse me, Fareeha. I am just-... rarely do I meet people from my past.” And she holds her hands to her heart, if she had one, “You were so young when I last saw you. The years really do come and go quickly.”

Pharah rubs at her eyes then, laughing wetly, “Yeah, I guess I’d only been, like, 18 or something the last time you saw me. And you haven’t changed at all.”

They embrace then, even if Echo hovers above the ground just as Zenyatta does. It feels like a tender moment that Hanzo really shouldn’t be seeing. So instead, he turns his attention to Agent Zarya. And Hanzo knows Zarya. He’s sure Zarya remembers too, the eyes she has on him. It cuts him like a knife flying through the air. He can do little but steel himself, wait for her to address it.

“Winston, why do you have an assassin for hire on your team?” And indeed she does, directed to the ape but her eyes still trained on Hanzo.

“Ah, you’ll be pleased to know he’s here for the foreseeable future. Only Overwatch-sanctioned work.”

She raises one eyebrow, cut with a scar, “And you know what he’s done.”

Hanzo can take criticism, but it irks him enough to get a rise.

“I have discarded my past… endeavors. I will not be working for any interests that are not Overwatch.” He tries his best to keep his tone from getting clipped, but there’s little he can do.

Again, Zarya’s eyes narrow, but she seems somewhat placated.

When her gaze leaves him, he can finally breathe. Then they are led away, with a jovial goodbye between Pharah and Echo, and Baptiste lets out a howl.

“Aha, _wow_ Hanzo, what did you do to piss her off?” He holds his stomach, keeled over.

“I was once hired to steal information from the Russian government. Something or other about interferences. Her squadron had intercepted me as I was on my way out and I’d nearly killed her.” At the reminder of his unsavory past, Hanzo looks to the floor, tries to forget the exact moment he’d lined up the shot with her shock of pink hair and fired, how it had missed by mere millimeters. He’d gotten away with the information easily enough, but he had still tempted fate by drawing that arrow. He has a reminder in the form of an energy burn that’s boiled into one shoulder blade.

Echo, who has returned to this moment in time, suggests, “How about we show you the training grounds now? You’ll need to know the way for the next two weeks. Mandatory training is important for all new recruits.”

Of course. A new recruit. A former assassin. A few new bridges, but plenty of burnt ones.


	4. Catch and Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I can add the tag for the second half of this damn ship. Also now we're officially enemies to friends to lovers. Also please tell me if this was confusing because literally all three of my betas didn't know what the hell I was talking about.
> 
> McHanzo content? Come share:  
> Twitter: @RoseArting  
> Instagram: @rosearting  
> Tumblr: @riroses

Hanzo shouldn’t be surprised when Baptiste, under the supervision of Ana, the field master of the training grounds, shows him the archery range and tells him to let loose.

He shouldn’t be surprised, yet it comes to him slowly, like bubbles rising to the surface of a thick liquid, bursting as they meet air.

Looking between the two, he tries to hide the fervor in his question, “Are you sure?”

Baptiste defers to Ana, who graces them with a small quirk of her lips upward, drawing out the lines that show her age.

“You’ll need to get used to the range eventually. Best to start now while you’re here.” She swipes silver bangs from her eye, nonchalant in that calculated way that most are when they give over control. Hanzo knows where and when to appreciate it.

Straightening after he bows to her, he follows as she opens up a panel on the wall, displaying racks of bows that come in different styles: recurves, compounds, longbows. In his youth, Hanzo was trained classically with the longbow, of which he only graduated from when the times had proven to his father that improvements had actually been better than tradition. That’s when he’d gotten his hands on his first recurve, a slight step up but with an added finesse he had to hone.

He still had his own bow tucked away in his room, soon to have a plate put on the door, etched with his name. It was custom, made to fit his build and draw weight, something he improved on every time he picked it up. When he was young, he was scrawny and started at 2.5 kilos. Now he had enough upper body strength to handle 18.

As his hand hovered over one of the recurves on display, standard in its shape, almost rudimentary, he hesitates again. When he’s not met with the clamber of feet running away and shrieks, he picks it up, testing the string. Clearly meant more as a starting weight, so he undoes the knot at the bases and makes it taunt. After a few deliberate dry fires, he takes it as a sign.

The arrows are less important as long as they have fletching and a head that he can hurt with.

The shirt he’s wearing isn’t quite conducive to the work he’s been tasked with - a long-sleeved v-neck that tugs around his elbows - so he sheds it so it doesn’t inhibit him. Maybe in another world, he would be more conscious, more concerned with being this vulnerable. But maybe it’s canceled out by the fact he has the single most deadly weapon he can wield in his hands. Slinging one of the quivers around his shoulder, he steps up to the clear yellow line drawn on the floor.

Ana shows him the control panel, sweeping through the options for the training bots and holographic projections he could use to aid him. The bots are a special invention of Overwatch’s, built to come back together at their magnetic joints, even if most blunt damage remains. The projections also help with setting, so Hanzo isn’t just shooting down a straight range with one singular, circular target in mind.

He allows her to set the default and Athena comes to life, “Hello, Agent Shimada. Would you like to record your progress from this session?” It’s an innocent enough query, but something doesn’t sit well with him. He wonders if anyone even goes over past records besides for benchmarks, if Ana perhaps addresses the information with a keen eye, noting oddities.

“That won’t be necessary, Athena.” Hanzo tests his grip on the bow, pulling at the nock. Call him antsy, but he hasn’t had the chance to shoot since that night with Genji, fearful for his life and yet resigned to his fate.

Taking a deep breath in, he tries to get back into the proper headspace, forgetting the eyes on him. He focuses on the simple, stationary bot down the range, set far so he can test his ability after such a long absence. Carefully, he draws an arrow from the quiver on his back, nocks it, slowly raises his arms as he draws back. Without his glove, the burn has already settled into the groove of his fingers, deeply calloused but still fragile.

It takes all of him to keep in just how light his chest feels, lit with a gentle smoldering of charcoal.

He releases.

It takes little more than a second to see the distance that he split through, to identify the clunk of the bot’s head rolling away from its body.

Comforting, like an old friend. Something he’s missed for so, so long. When was the last time he took on an assassination job? How long has it been since he’s put down a body without guilt lying sheerly over his eyes?

When the bot’s head finally reconnects, he has another arrow nocked, pulled back. He lets this one simmer in his shoulders, a familiar bone-deep ache spreading outward from the middle of his scapula. He lowers his back elbow in the moment he assesses himself, silently chiding the visible giddiness. Imperceptibly, his eyes narrow, sharp.

Another good hit, this one embedded in the bot’s glass eye, perfectly parallel to the floor.

“Haven’t seen such a good shot in a while, Mr. Shimada.” Ana praises him, her arms crossed across her chest. She has her eyes on the end of the range, considering his prowess. “Surely you would be okay with an increase in difficulty?”

It’s not a request. It’s a test.

“Please.” Is all he says.

After a short moment with the control panel, an elaborate set up has taken the range, distorting it with hard light until it’s become a cavity of walls and rooms and windows, down which he can see only through the projections that have some semblance of transparency. 

Like a real battlefield, something Hanzo is more accustomed to.

He takes the challenge in stride, vigilant of the arrows he has left and the targets he has to hit. A group of bots huddle in one of the rooms to his left, another crossing above on a raised platform, laughable with the plotted route it takes. He’s able to get them all in the head with three arrows, one lucky one flying through one bot’s head and out into another with so much force they both topple.

In only a few seconds too, if Athena’s cheerful exclamation is anything to go by.

As Baptiste rambles off to the side about his excitement, Hanzo turns to gauge Ana’s response.

Per usual, that small uptick, but in her eye he sees a surprising amount of levity.

“Please, Athena, read the scoreboard.”

“Yes, Agent Amari. The first place is your score of 3.05 seconds. Second is Agent McCree’s score of 3.37 seconds. Agent Shimada has just taken third place with 4.24 seconds.”

A test indeed. He had suspected something like this, her contrasting his wit with her own, even if he’s been out of practice. It makes him wonder briefly about this McCree character he’s been hearing about. Baptiste’s multitude of stories have painted him on the same level of jovial interaction, a good man to drink with and hunt beside.

With a nod from Ana, the hard light scenery dissolves, left with just the range’s skeleton.

“Commendable, Mr. Shimada. Your brother is no liar when he talks about you.”

What a cryptic way to say that. It makes Hanzo’s mind run, bounding between possibilities that couldn’t be true.

Genji talking about him, praising him in front of others. Genji being truthful about him, of all things. It was so different from Hanzo, how he handled the past. It seemed he coped worse, even if he wasn’t the one that had to crawl from the brink of death.

Others know about him because Genji told them.

Hanzo has not uttered his brother’s name since the day he cut him down.

* * *

When the three get to the commons for dinner, with a few agents tagging along, they’re greeted with the scent of savory meat that seems to hang in the air just as they walk in.

Reinhardt, identifiable by his stature, stands over one of the ovens, the source of the smell being a whole plate’s worth of bratwurst he drops into a pot. Brigette lingers at his side, straining collard greens that have been steamed. Torbjorn, who had walked in with Hanzo, immediately strolls up to them, quick to input his opinion on the meal preparation. Mei and Dr. Ziegler are at the bar stools, sharing a comm with looks of glee. One of the tables in the middle of the room is full of most of the other agents, of those who came. 

D.Va, Lucio, and Tracer made up one of the groups, a game console set up on the table that they all stare at with pointed focus. Echo, Pharah, Zarya, and now Ana and Winston, are their own division, much quieter compared to the wave of cheers and cries that their younger counterparts make.

The only people not in sight is Bastion - understandable, considering he is a robot - and his brother, master included.

Only after another additional scan does he clock the absence of the infamous McCree.

He wonders, considering the mass of people, why he isn’t here. Baptiste had mentioned that eating dinner together was one of the more cheesy, old-school things Overwatch liked to do, but he figured everyone would be more or less obligated (like he was) to show their face.

As if he can read his mind, Baptiste claps a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder, right above the flickering tail of his dragon.

“I’m sure Genji will be here in no time, don’t worry. We don’t call it tradition for nothing.” And with a wink, he meets the women at the bar, leaning down on his elbows to watch whatever it is they’re so engrossed in.

Hanzo closes his eyes, and takes in a deep breath.

The last time he can remember having a large meal like this was _before_ , like so many things. It had been the day before his father passed, kneeling at his side like always, watchful of the eyes that trailed his every move.

After agonizing minutes, hours, his father had dismissed everyone. Everyone but his sons. They had finished their food so it was a drink of light sake that Hanzo had nursed then, feeling the slight burn in his throat that he hadn't felt in a long while.

Pallid and sunken as he was, his father still held his authority like he could never be rid of it, like it was his skin and the only way to be free was to take a scalpel and peel it all from his muscle.

He'd looked at Genji, at Hanzo. Had gotten that look in his eyes when he thought of their mother, how they had her eyes and her nose.

A rare moment, he'd taken their hands and held them. Closed his eyes and muttered under his breath a prayer in their native language, so old-fashioned, so traditional.

The next morning, they'd found him kneeling at their mother's altar, serenely bowed if not for the pool of blood soaking into the cushion.

That had been the moment Hanzo saw behind the cracks, heard the voices through the wall and wanted to run away with Genji and never look back. Take him far away, the only family he had left, and save him from the world that continued to be a nightmare.

But Hanzo was a papa's boy. So he had stayed. Upheld tradition, no matter how much his heart shuddered when he took the head seat at the table.

Subsequent meals had always been alone, eaten in an empty room, even devoid of his brother as he found solace outside of the castle's walls, away from Hanzo.

"Hanzo." An echo of the past, robotic voice melding with a natural, more accented one, younger.

It takes all of him to turn, to look behind at a faded memory, feel the hand that held firmly to his arm. On his dragon, digging into the scales.

He breathes out.

They drag more chairs over to the already overcrowded table, settling in between both parties, Genji to his left and Zenyatta to his right.

He's neither in the middle nor at the head.

He just sits.

He just sits.

* * *

Hanzo figured dinner would come with a show. He didn't expect all the enthusiasm.

"And then he just comes in and _bwoooosh_! A huge gust of air and a gun and a hand and he gets me to my feet and back to my mech and says 'Good job kid.' I never felt so young in my life." D.Va illustrates her story with hands that expand outward in a mock explosion.

"I like to think Soldier has a soft spot for you youngins. Sees the future in ye, as cold as he is." Torbjorn raises his cup to his lips after, taking a long swig like he's trying to wash away his words before he says them, "Believe a little hope is all we need right now."

A symphony of nods somewhat sobered by the shift, but soon tracked back to D.Va as she continues her story about being saved and recruited for Overwatch after an encounter with Soldier: 76 in Busan.

Hanzo had heard of him before, seen his jacket on the news, heard his name uttered in circles that wished more harm than good. He didn't realize he was Overwatch till now. It seemed right, clicking into place like the last piece of a puzzle. A vigilante, no compromise, no dead citizens. He was a machine, working for the single goal of peace, even in a path bathed in blood.

He was not here at this dinner, even with his status clear as day when Hanzo had checked his comm under the table. He wasn't deployed for any mission (or gone off to find himself one). In Winston's eyes, he can sense a reason, one he would not question.

"Y'know, McCree came for me. Met me on the border of Dorado and told me I could do somethin' for my people. I could barely tell him no with that smile he pulled." Lucio laughs at Hanzo's left, just beyond Genji.

"Same for me. Knew I couldn't resist when he pulled that." Pharah sounds exasperated like one might about a lowly prank. She grimaces then, looking across the table, to her mother. That had been another thing Hanzo gleaned from his comm. "Used it all the damn time on us. Like he could weasel his way out of anything if he so willed it."

Such a clear olive branch, as shaky as it was.

Ana just casts back her usual sedated expression, "That boy has nothing holding him together beside his bootstraps and luck."

"And he's been out for weeks straight. When did he say he was going to get back?" Mercy, with a mug in one hand, shakes her head.

Echo, if capable of comprehending the exasperation, doesn't comment on it.

"He didn't tell me a time. He just said he had something he had to take care of. I've been trying to get a signal ping from his comm but I haven't had any luck." Hanzo almost expects her to shrug her smooth shoulders, give a frustrated look to the sky. She does not.

Tracer surely does, however, "I swear, once I see him again he's in for it. Comes back for three days and leaves without saying a word. 'im and Genji, so flighty."

The comment is related to him, so he feels the attention snap to them like magnets. Genji, for his part, just chuckles, eyes squinted as he looks at Hanzo openly, scratching at his nose.

"Business is business. There are some things a man must do alone."

"Like rekindling a brotherhood after a decade apart?" Mercy hides her smirk behind her mug.

Hanzo can recognize the sudden tension in Genji's shoulders, the way his head looks away.

He almost wants to scoff, to tease like Genji does, but Mei is quick to stop him from doing so.

"What have you been doing all this time, Hanzo?" She asks innocently, with curiosity cocking her head to the side. He knows that she could just read his newly minted page on the personnel database, but he figures this isn't about raw information but rather a tale, like the rest have been sharing.

He squares his jaw before he speaks, considerate of his aura, "I have seen more of the world than I'll ever know what to do with. Nomad life will take you to some of the most interesting places." He can't help scratching his neck, feeling the eyes on him.

"Any favorites?" Zarya queries, much softer after she's had a drink.

"Perhaps Italy. I am fond of ports and tourist sites and it had plenty to see." And the particular surf he'd accidentally reeled in that day in a blackened alley, knife to his throat - a good catch and release that still simmers deep in his gut. "Took a day trip in Venice to see the rivers and escape into the scenery. I was miles out from my work but the deadline wasn't so strict." It had been a pleasant time. One that manages to sit well, even after his naively rosy glasses had come off after, recognized a loose end when he saw one.

Hanzo stares into his drink, sees the reflection of a face that had disappeared into the night as if it had never existed.

"And the worst?" Brigette hums, her head resting in her hands. Seeing her properly, he'd be remiss to point out the differences between her and Torbjorn, as if it would change the fact they are of blood, however odd it feels to know.

At this Hanzo chuckles darkly, skimming through a mile-long list in his head, "Plenty. None worse than Siberia." He makes sure to hold Zarya's gaze long before he goes on, "Unrelated to our encounter. I was in the area a couple of years before, tasked with climbing a mountain at the height of winter for the retrieval of goods. Someone who had money had a cache built for safekeeping, needed their haul, but couldn't find it in themselves to trudge through the snow for it. It had been easy. Then it had not been."

He drinks, if only for the dramatic pause.

"I had been climbing in the best gear I could manage to get and it still wasn't enough to stop every bone in my body from freezing over. By the time I'd reached the cache, this mole hole burrowed in the ground, I collapsed and could barely get up. Took crates from inside and started a fire and vowed to burn it all. I didn't, but it was a nice thought."

He doesn't explain how fucked his legs had been during that trip, new and shiny from months prior but having the worst time calibrating to the extreme cold. He'd gone back to the designer and practically begged for the oversight to be rectified.

"You always hated the cold. What did you expect?" Genji rolls his eyes like he's heard it all a thousand times before. Maybe so, if their youth reminds him correctly.

“Nothing but the worst.” He mutters, sinking a little in his seat.

“Mei, you’re practically used to living in a freezer. How do you stand it?” Baptiste questioned like he had a light on her face, “Antarctica couldn’t have been nice.”

She shrugs sheepishly, tugging a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’ve been cryogenically frozen for years. I’m more likely to tolerate it.”

A peel of laughter, spreading like a disease.

The conversation moves away, pulled by the tide, and Hanzo drinks while he can.

* * *

With a full stomach (for the first time in months, probably) and a kind of determination in his lungs, Hanzo takes his case of archery equipment and, as silently as he can manage, pads down the corridor and through block 1 to block 2. The walls are all the same slate gray, but lines and names painted on them help distinguish one area from the next.

This way, Hanzo follows them, as silent as he can, to the training grounds. The lights are off and the room is quiet when he gets there. He sighs in relief.

Slowly, he takes his bow and quiver from his bag, pulling on his glove and stretching his arms.

He doesn't know how long he'll be here, but it would be better to save himself from a night of sleeping on his stomach because of sore shoulders.

With that out of the way, he messes with the control panel for the shooting range, pulling up that same course Ana had.

"Good evening, Agent Shimada. Would you like me to record this session?"

Hanzo considers.

"Yes, thank you, Athena."

And he pulls his left arm from his _hakama_ , readies his bow in his hand.

And he pours an hour, at least, into the course. Shooting, over and over, trying to surpass Ana's score, _McCree's_ score. Each time, he's just that little bit off.

Never does he get lucky with another double shot like when he'd shown off to Ana and Baptiste, so he wastes another second nocking and shooting and killing. Each time, with his time fluctuating closer and closer to 4 seconds flat, he wonders just how in the hell they managed to get all of the bots without extreme luck.

The group in the room is easy if you had a good flick between all three, but the bot roaming the path in between the two projected buildings was trickiest. Programmed in a pattern, but it never started in the same spot. So it all truly was luck. Which is why Hanzo can't figure it.

He wished he had an arrow that could break off into many more, just to clear that first room in a second.

Sadly, he did not.

So he was stuck with his raw ability and a fluctuating amount of luck.

It had probably been nearing one in the morning, well past when he would usually fall asleep, and his arms were straining like they never had in years. In most jobs he had taken on, his work was done within minutes. If not, at most half an hour, where he would make his getaway with a trail of evidence and bodies behind him.

He'd pride himself in his strength and endurance, but this was practically shameful. It was compounded in that thick sheen of tiredness that threatened to take him away from the waking world and make him slip under.

So he'd barely even heard it.

A jingle, like a loose nut on a pipe, meters away.

So low that he hadn't recognized it until the second time, rhythmic.

Natural.

Human.

Threat.

He twists, releasing his arrow towards the noise without even a visual because all he could think in his dulled brain was that someone was sneaking up on him and prepared to kill.

A yelp, deep, male, and a clamber of footsteps. Not pain, so he'd missed, but enough to catch him off guard.

Hanzo leaps as fast as he can to the noise, trying to get a hold on the shadowy figure.

He feels fabric between his fingers, so he clenches and pushes backward, grabbing an arrow from his quiver and holding the tip to the man's neck.

The world is hushed, Hanzo's heartbeat louder than anything in his ears.

Only after a few beats does he recognize what he's done.

The blue light shining from the projections is faint from this far away, but Hanzo sees the gun at the man's side, holstered to his waist. Then, the wispy hair that's just on the outside of the man's head, shining silvery.

And then that look in his eyes, bright and reflective.

Hanzo doesn't move. As much as he has the man pinned, he may as well be too.

"Jeez, darlin', didn't realize you'd startle so bad." Baritone, quiet, tinged so American Western Hanzo can barely stop his recoil.

He hisses between his teeth, "Walking up on an armed man in the dark. It was your mistake."

This earns him a chuckle, like this situation is at all amusing. Hanzo still has the tip of his arrow against the man's neck and he takes Hanzo as something to laugh at.

"I beg your pardon. Wasn't thinkin' I'd run into someone unfamiliar."

His hands are up, palms open, very slow in their movements. One is metallic, robotic, the opposite side he wears his gun on. A sign of trust, goodwill.

With a huff, Hanzo releases the man's collar and steps back.

Now, with less of the light obscured by Hanzo's form, he sees what might as well be a cowboy from an old movie, characterized by a hat and boots and such an obnoxious belt buckle. Under the brim are eyes that seem to follow him in his observation, careful in their consideration.

Hanzo's just trying to figure out who he is.

Not Soldier, doesn't even fit close with the description. And he can't think of anyone else he hasn't met yet besides…

"Jesse McCree, if you were wonderin'."

Easy to read. Stupid.

"Such a shame we had to meet under these circumstances." He really tries to be polite, but his veins are still buzzing with unused adrenaline, completely ready to have taken on an armed man and put him down like so many times before.

"Can I get your name, sweetheart?" McCree lifts his hat just a tad, relaxed against the wall like he's meant to be there, like he'd always been there.

"Hanzo Shimada. Just Shimada."

And this finally seems to take some of the carefree demeanor away. The telltale widen of his eyes before they scrutinize even closer. He still wears a smile, but he's come to understand what had really been at stake moments before.

"Genji's brother. Didn't realize you'd be so dedicated to the cause." This is better. Better that he's more challenging now, that he nods over to the range. "I didn't get my score for nothin'. Neither did Ana."

Hanzo allows himself a moment to look back, to assess his body. It aches. And all he's gotten from it is his knuckles that burn and 4.03 seconds.

He goes to his bag and packs away his equipment, tossing it over his shoulder, "My brother asked me to be here. I will be at nothing but my best."

And he turns off the field, casting the room back in darkness. He'd clocked the door beforehand so he follows the path, hears McCree walking near him.

What he'd heard earlier, that is so damning now, are spurs.

The door slides open automatically, and they step out into the dim light of the hallway.

McCree watches him like a hunter to a fox.

Hanzo just stares, narrows his eyes when they meet in the middle.

"Promise I won't go 'round sneakin' up on you no more. Rather not get an arrow in the neck."

"It would be a difficult situation to explain." Hanzo agrees, if only on principle alone. Overwatch would rather have him tried and hanged for killing a fellow agent than given benefit of the doubt.

McCree tips his hat, "Then I bid you adieu for now, Shimada."

And he saunters away with his back to Hanzo, like he couldn't possibly kill him, would never suspect him of doing so.

Hanzo grips the straps of his bag tighter, the rough material cutting into his raw fingers.

What a particularly annoying catch and release.


End file.
